


hands of gold are always cold

by kimaracretak



Series: the starlit cold morning where the dreams never last [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Sensation Play, Sensuality, rivers that probably want to eat you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: (let it thunder over me, my love / please, let it thunder over you): It is the forest Goldberry returns to always, where the trees whisper to her, trap light and air and rock for her, and remind her that she need not only belong to the world, she may have a home there as well. It is in the forest that she meets Nînazîr, on a day when the sweet mortal is too warm for the winter, and it is in the forest where they remain in all the stolen scattered months that they have.Or; Goldberry, Nînazîr, and a day before the fall





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from gazpacho, 'the dumb', summary quote from delain, 'the hurricane'
> 
> loosely in the same 'verse as a couple of my other goldberry/lady fics ([in memories cast into melodies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8283311) & [cold be hand and heart and bone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6112522)), but can be read as a standalone and takes place before the 'verse takes a turn for sad
> 
> for the femslash kinkmeme prompt 'Goldberry/Lady of the Blue Brooch, sensation play', which is, you know, not _exactly_ the same as asking me specifically to write something but is basically asking me specifically to write something

The world is wide, but it is not so wide that Goldberry's waters cannot span the whole of it. Through the rivers she wanders, feeling the earth that forms her riverbed shift with the passing of mortal borders. She herself cares little for those borders when all that the world is is for her. Borders come and pass with the sort of time that she has never been able to grasp, and so she marks off her own places and there abides.

Sometimes Goldberry sinks into the mud, drifts through the caverns of the dwarves into their underground streams until even those start to fade, so thin and pale at the edges of the world while above her rocks enough to suffocate press _down_ , the pressure of the thought of them against her skin making her dizzy with something too freeing to be fear.

Sometimes Goldberry flies up, summer days when the sun is so hot it scorches through her fragile form until she can not longer hold it and she spirals into the air in pieces, drops caught on the breeze and twisting so high that this plane begins to cool and fade from view, and she tumbles back to land with the rain.

But it is the forest she returns to always, where the trees whisper to her, trap light and air and rock for her, and remind her that she need not only belong to the world, she may have a home there as well. It is in the forest that she meets Nînazîr, on a day when the sweet mortal is too warm for the winter, and it is in the forest where they remain in all the stolen scattered months that they have.

 

*

 

There is a ring on Nînazîr's finger that neither of them speak of. Goldberry is more than willing to let her mortal have her secrets, and whatever binding it signifies is not enough to keep Nînazîr from returning to her again and again, slipping out from the autumn shadows wreathed in burning light.

"You've never told me what you are," Nînazîr says one night when November's golden light is nearly swallowed by the blue of the sky.

Goldberry hums in agreement, but does not lift her head from where it is pillowed on Nînazîr's chest. The season is turning, and she is tired. "Nor you me," she says, but there is no malice in her tone. She feels more than sees Nînazîr lift her head slightly, her silken hair brushing across the bare skin of Goldberry's arm, and she shivers at the touch.

"It's not the same," Nînazîr sighs, and her fingertips dig ever so slightly into Goldberry's hip. "You're a river daughter, and I'm --"

"Mine," Goldberry finishes her sentence, before rolling over to prove her claim with a kiss. Nînazîr tastes of violets, like always, but there is a fading hint of something _else_  under it today, something burnt and dark, and she feels her brow crease even as Nînazîr's soft mouth opens under her own. " _Mine_ ," she repeats as she pulls back, willing her words to wash away the dark taste.

Nînazîr looks up with a question in her eyes. "Then are you mine in turn?"

Goldberry isn't, not truly. She can never be owned, rarely be commanded. "Yes," she says anyway, because playing pretend is ever so fun.

"Prove it," Nînazîr says, sitting up and offering Goldberry her hand. "I will have you in the water, then. And only you."

She means, Goldberry thinks, no magic, and that is much less fun. Still, she goes willingly: they have little time before Goldberry must sleep with the winter's snow, and it all is precious.

Goldberry unlaces her dress with quick deft fingers, smiling as Nînazîr's eyes grow wide and dark with desire. The fine cloth slips down her body easily, and her skin prickles against the wind, nipples tightening under Nînazîr's appreciative gaze.

"Good," Nînazîr murmurs, and there's a sly hint of approval that Goldberry thinks is new, and she raises her chin with a hint of pride. She has watched Nînazîr grow, and soon they will have more games to play. For now, Nînazîr says only, "Into the water with you."

She steps out of her shoes as Goldberry drops backwards into the water, giggling as it sprays everywhere, dancing silver-blue in the air. Nînazîr laughs too as she wades in after her, not bothering to take off her dress, and Goldberry eyes the places where the wet fabric clings to her lover, tracing the curves of her body with her eyes and already thinking ahead to how lovely it will be to strip her of it later.

Goldberry stretches out as Nînazîr runs her hands up and down her body, arching her back to push her breasts more insistently into her clever hands. This form's freedom is limited, and it is not always her favourite, but always when Nînazîr's fingertips dance across her skin it is her favourite form.

One of Nînazîr's hands dips under her back to support her, unnecessarily but kindly, and Goldberry will never understand. She will never quite understand why she keeps returning for it, again and again, but as arousal throbs deep within her, a burning counterpoint the the cold of the water and Nînazîr's hands, she decides it doesn't matter.

Had Nînazîr always been this cold, when they played before?

"Cold," Goldberry murmurs as Nînazîr's fingers trace concentric circles around her breasts, always stopping just short of her nipples. "Your hands are so cold." Her own fingers twitch by her side, aching to bring warmth back to the water, but Nînazîr bites her lip gently in warning.

"No, darling. We've talked about this." Goldberry sighs, and though her eyes are shut she can imagine her breath clouding the space between their lips. "None of your magic today. You feel what I want you to."

Goldberry whimpers as Nînazîr pulls away just slightly, leaving her unanchored in the water. She can hear the soft click of rocks in the riverbed as Nînazîr moves, and then a hand presses against her forehead and all but her nose is submerged. Then she hears nothing at all but the soft rush of water past her ears.

The hand against her forehead strokes down her cheek, fingertips coming to rest against her lips. She opens her mouth and sucks them in eagerly. She focuses on the taste of Nînazîr's skin, sweetly distinct against the cold freshness of the water. Like this, it she hardly realises that she cannot see, cannot hear.

Goldberry shifts impatiently, wondering where Nînazîr's other hand is. She is wet from far more than the river's water, and this anticipation is always the worst, when her chosen senses are so unbearably heightened and yet she still cannot feel what she truly wants: Nînazîr's mouth against her cunt, Nînazîr's fingers inside her.

 _Please,_ she thinks, but hardly has she formed the thought, though, when she feels the cold shock of Nînazîr's fingers against her cunt, cupping her gently and slipping across her slick flesh. She cannot beg, cannot do anything but lift her hips insistently, and she is sure Nînazîr is laughing as she teases Goldberry's entrance with the tip of one finger.

Finally, _finally,_  Nînazîr slips her fingers inside, and if Goldberry had breath she would sigh with the _rightness_  of it, Nînazîr's fingers stroking in and out so carefully, her thumb circling her clit with feather-light touches as the water flowing around them moves faster in time with Nînazîr's hand.

Goldberry thinks she would be content to stay just here forever, but too soon Nînazîr replaces her thumb on Goldberry's clit with her tongue, and Goldberry wants to scream with the pleasure so unique to this form, to this woman. Nînazîr's mouth is the first warm thing of the day, and she feels her legs start to tremble as heat and cold pulse around her core, sending shivers up and down her spine.

And then Nînazîr's fingers press deep enough inside her that she can feel a different kind of cold, something unnatural, something not _quite_  and for a brief moment she thinks it must be Nînazîr's ring -- and then Nînazîr curls her fingers just right, and Goldberry cannot think at all, trembling with the pleasure of her release as the current whirls around them.

Nînazîr is hovering over her again when she opens her eyes, so pale that for a moment she thinks her translucent, nothing but sharp bones. And then she solidifies, the same Nînazîr Goldberry has always known, and she reaches up with greedy hands to drag her down for a kiss. She hums contentedly as Nînazîr's tongue slips against her own, admires the contrast of her own brown skin against Nînazîr's pale face.

Pale, but not dead. Goldberry breaks the kiss abruptly, holds Nînazîr just far enough away to drink in the sight of her, open and delighted and _wanting._

"Are you all right?" Nînazîr asks, though she doesn't sound very concerned. She knows her skills, Goldberry thinks.

"Better than, my dear," she says, trailing her hands down Nînazîr's cheeks, the sides of her neck, til they land in the low neckline of Nînazîr's dress and _tug_ , letting her breasts spill free. "Better still when I get to see you come apart under me."

Nînazîr grins, tips her head back. Goldberry lets the water around them start to heat, and Nînazîr's soft sigh is just another layer to the river's songs.

They have time. That, they will always have.


End file.
